


but, oh, i love it when you talk to me like you do

by bleuboxes



Category: Clone High
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Introspection, abe SUCKS, joan and cleo deserve better and i TRIED to make that happen, pretty much canon up until the end of prom, the everyone gets frozen thing doesnt happen lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26788603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleuboxes/pseuds/bleuboxes
Summary: “Goodnight, Kennedy,” she says, then rises up to kiss him on the cheek. She rushes in the house and closes the door before she can gauge his reaction. She leans her back against the door then slides down, fighting the ghost of a laugh.God, she thinks, I feel so stupid.But it’s a good kind of stupid; she can’t find it within herself to mind.Or: The Prom and the aftermath.
Relationships: Joan of Arc/JFK (Clone High)
Comments: 72
Kudos: 478
Collections: Joanfk





	but, oh, i love it when you talk to me like you do

**Author's Note:**

> i am literally. so tired so i apologize for how shitty this note is going to be. anyway. i have two (2) essays i should be writing for college rn but like, its friday, well. saturday now but it WAS friday and i deserved a break. 
> 
> So here is this little fic. thank u sequoia for motivating me to finish this. 
> 
> title is from the song lady by the sea by stephen sanchez. 
> 
> pls pardon all mistakes - my eyes are tired and i'm probably going to miss a couple. i just want to get this shit posted lol.

If she’s learned anything, it’s that everything boils down to reciprocity.

Like her and Abe for example. They reciprocate friendship. Joan can’t remember a time that they weren’t friends – it’s always been Joan and Abe (and later, Gandhi) – but they’ve always been there for each other – until she decided to go and fall for her best friend – which, despite all the books on the subject, did _not_ go according to plan. So here she is, all mopey because she’s in love with her best friend, and it’s not requited.

Which – you know what – it _was_ going fine. She was just about over it – Abe going to Prom with Cleo was the icing on the cake, really. She knows know she’ll always be second to Cleo – she’ll always just be Joan, his friend.

All the stuff she liked about him before flies out the window when he decides she's pretty _after_ Cleo gave her that makeover to make it look like she’s working the corner (which isn’t to say there’s anything wrong with that – it’s just, not Joan’s style – you now?)

At best, it lets Kennedy notice her. She’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and takes advantage of the situation, even if it means whoring herself out for the night. She wants to see Abe hurt, and if that means he has to watch her whisper stupid shit in Kennedy’s ear all night – tits out, hair up, and mask on, then so be it.

 _Oh, JFK,_ she says, shrilly, so many times she loses count, _you’re so funny._

After a certain amount of time, however, she finds that he actually is, and even lets out a real laugh. He looks at her then with something new in his eye. She feels as if the gig’s up and tries her best to put on the charade again.

She thinks it works, even if that funny glint in his eye only just remains.

And despite everything – Prom isn’t the worst thing she’s subjected herself to. Okay, so maybe JFK also has like, four other Prom dates, and maybe Abe is with Cleo, and Joan looks like a completely different person. Pretending is kind of fun. It’s nice to put on a front, act like she doesn’t care.

Maybe that’s what the prom is for – pretending.

She’s doing fine, really until Abe has to come over and tell JFK how lucky he is to be going to Prom with her, and Joan, for a fraction of a second, almost thinks he’s going to come out and tell her that after all this time, he’s been in love with her – and like, revenge plan be damned at this point, if that’s the case – sometimes, saying your over something and meaning it are two different things.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Cleo comes over, grates on Joan’s nerves and leads Abe out of the room to the meat locker.

He doesn’t look back.

She expected this – that Abe would ultimately choose someone else over her; just because she saw it coming doesn’t make the sting hurt any less. She hastily makes her way to the bathroom when she looks to her side, expecting to see JFK, but he’s across the room with the Brontë sisters, laughing up a storm, like its fine and dandy that he brought five different girls to the Prom, like its every day that Joan gets paraded around the school dressed like a cheap whore, and the guy she’s liked since forever is slagging off with a girl that Joan can’t stand.

She doesn’t cry; it’s a quiet, shaking sort of rage that runs through her. She turns the sink on, splashing her face with cold, cold water, like a baptism – she looks up, sees the makeup running down her face and she smiles – cheeks stained with black streaks, lipstick just a little too messy, and hair all out of place and plastered to her forehead. Brown eyes stare back at her, red-rimmed and glossy, as she scrubs what’s left of Cleo’s makeover off her face, watches the red-black-blue water swirl down the drain – watches it disappear; clear water takes over the dirty, and she looks up.

Fresh faced and dripping and filled with an energy – somewhere between sadness and rage.

She shuts the water off, hears the faint pulse of music through the walls, then grabs paper towel, gently patting her face dry. She returns to the mirror, doing her best to calm her hair out of the big, teased mess that Cleo made, and back into its usual flat state. By the time she’s done, it looks as close to normal as it can be without using a brush. It’ll do.

She takes one more deep breath, hands gripping the rim of the sink like a lifeline, and looks at herself – really looks –

Sees the lines and the blemishes; sees the way the dark red of her hair offsets the pale white of her skin. She looks pretty, she thinks, if she ignores the stupid dress that she’s wearing. She feels more herself, more Joan.

She’s definitely not going back to dance, but she’s feeling good enough to walk along the edges so that she can mope outside until Kennedy’s done flirting or… _whatever the fuck_ he’s doing with the Brontë sisters.

She leaves the bathroom, arms crossed across her chest in an attempt to cover herself, to make herself seem smaller than she is. No one pays her any mind as she meanders her way outside to sit on the stairs.

The air bites her skin, which is still a bit clammy. It feels nice though; it feels real. She looks up at the sky, the stars are just coming out amongst a midnight blue, the moon sits up high, round and bright. She lets out a shaky breath.

“ _God_ ,” she groans, putting her face in her hands, “I’m _so_ stupid.”

What she does not do is cry – even if she wants to. She just sits there for a little, throat tight and stinging as she bites back tears. She will not be the girl to cry at Prom – she’s already been humiliated enough –

And then suddenly Kennedy’s there, sitting on the step right next to her.

“Shouldn’t you be with your other dates?”

“Actually, eh, Catherine the Great is heaving bile into the hot-dog vat, and I eh, gave the Brontë sisters to the three stooges,” he shrugs.

“I used you, Kennedy,” she admits, “I used you to try and make Abe jealous.” She groans in frustration, “I’m such a _girl_.”

“Exactly,” he says. Joan looks up at him now, “You’re a real knock out Betty, Joan.”

She’s not expecting to hear that – and she’s not expecting for him to elaborate. Kennedy admits to liking her before her stupid transformation. No one’s ever said that about her before. And while she outwardly scorns him for calling Abe a “chowderhead” for not noticing her before all this, she thinks that maybe he’s right.

She deserves to like someone who likes her for who she is.

“Thanks, Kennedy,” she says, smiling softly, and meaning it.

He gives her a smile back, and she knows he’s gonna feed her a line. She laughs before the thought can leave his head.

“No. No,” she shakes her head,” You can take me home though, if you’re ready to go.”

“Yeah,” he says, standing up slowly, then offering her his hand. She takes it, “I’m ready.”

* * *

They stop for fries at the Grassy Knoll on their way home. She’s never really been here without Gandhi or Abe before, and she’s not really sure what to talk about. Usually, it’s her telling Abe something about Cleo – clouding her advice enough for anyone with a brain to know it’s not advice and more to do with her own self-interest. Gandhi’s usually there and they talk about what a bonehead she’s being about Abe, but that’s gone now –

She looks down at her hands, intertwined and resting on the table.

“So,” she says, not really liking the silence.

“So,” he replies.

She doesn’t want to resort to talking about school, but she’s damn close. She doesn’t know what she has in common with JFK – because first of all, he was seriously dating Cleo for a while and like, she’s not sure who in their right mind would do that, and second of all, he’s a fucking _track star_ and Joan is, well, she’s not _unathletic_ (her brief stint on the boys’ basketball team is enough proof of that) but she’s no student athlete. She doesn’t flaunt herself in that crowd; Joan lays low mostly.

She keeps to herself.

“So,” she says, once more, “Did you have a nice time?”

“Yeah. I, er uh, I did.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

You can’t say she didn’t try.

She sighs, quietly; hoping that it went over Kennedy’s head. He’s busy looking out the window at a pair of headlights pulling into a parking spot, so she’s pretty sure she’s in the clear. She’s starting to get cold, feels the hair on her arms stick up and fights off a chill; it runs through her body, physically jolting her. She tries to warm herself up, rubbing her hands over her arms.

Kennedy isn’t so blind as to not notice, and wordlessly removes his suit jacket and hands it to her. Joan isn’t so proud as to refuse.

“Thanks,” she says, tugging the too-large garment over her shoulders. It swallows her – warms her almost instantly. She gives him a smile, and she means it.

“Anytime, doll.” He looks proud of himself or something. 

The waiter comes by with their fries – loaded with cheese and gravy, and they dig in immediately. Joan hadn’t realized how hungry she was until he asked if she wanted something to eat in the car, and even then, she thinks she underestimated the extent of her appetite.

“Dude,” she says, mid bite, “These fuck so hard.”

“Tell me about it,” he replies, showing a steaming handful of fries into his mouth. He misses, smearing gravy over the bottom half of his face. Joan giggles – he looks ridiculous – all gravy and cheese and a mouthful of food.

“You look,” she says between fits of laughter, “so fucking ridiculous.”

He makes a face then, and Joan laughs even harder.

“This better?” he asks, sticking two fries in his mouth so that he looks like Dracula. Joan’s about to swallow another fry, and chokes on it instead; laughing so hard she thinks it might have gone up her nose.

By the end of the basket of fries, her eyes are glazed over in laughter fueled tears.

He pays the bill (amidst Joan’s many protests), and then they’re on the road. Joan’s still wrapped up in his jacket – cozy and warm. It smells like an Abercrombie store and something earthy, like an old tree or something – Joan’s not sure, but she likes it.

She looks over to the driver’s side, see’s JFK loudly singing along to a Green Day song and thinks maybe Prom wasn’t so bad.

When he drops her off at Cleo’s house, he walks her to the door – his arm slung around her shoulder. She’s not sure what came over her that’s letting him touch her like this, but she can’t really find it in herself to mind.

“Tonight was… it was nice,” she admits, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

“I’m, er uh, glad.”

They stand there, on the stoop for a few minutes, the sound of the wind and the rare singular car disturb the silence.

“Well, I’m gonna head in. Thanks, Kennedy, for… well, for everything.”

“You’re welcome, Joan,” he says sincerely, “anytime.”

She goes to unlock the door, and is just about ready to walk through it when she remembers his jacket –

“Oh -!” She hurries out of his coat, “Here, sorry – almost forgot.”

“You’re fine, Joan. Really.”

Despite everything that happened tonight, she feels he might be right. Abe sucks, and she might have been stuck in this godforsaken dress for the evening, and maybe Cleo resents her, but Kennedy did choose her when it counted.

She hands him the jacket that she’s hastily folded. Her hands brush his as they complete the transaction. He’s looking at her again with that stupid glint. It’s late; must be the moon in his eyes.

“Goodnight, Kennedy,” she says, then rises up to kiss him on the cheek. She rushes in the house and closes the door before she can gauge his reaction. She leans her back against the door then slides down, fighting the ghost of a laugh.

 _God,_ she thinks, _I feel so stupid._

But it’s a good kind of stupid; she can’t find it within herself to mind.

* * *

Weeks pass.

Between Cleo being pissed at her, Cleo being pissed at Abe, and Abe following her around like a lovesick puppy, Joan’s ready to take the bridge. It’s not enough to be the clone of a martyred saint – _No._ On top of that, she’s got to deal with twenty-first century drama, a roommate that hates her, and the guy who didn’t use to like her back, likes her now – except she isn’t really into him.

The days where she hoped Abe would love her back are long gone.

It’s a particularly bad Saturday. Cleo’s screeching about how Joan shouldn’t have been such a harlot at Prom (like she was the one who decided to give herself a makeover and lend her that dress), they wouldn’t have gotten into this mess in the first place. Joan takes the abuse because well, it’s not Cleo’s fault that Abe’s an asshole.

And if Joan tells her that, she’s going to think it’s some ploy to take Abe back for herself – which, is probably something she probably would have done a while ago.

But, there’s only so much a girl can take. She toys with the idea of texting Gandhi as Cleo hurls insults her way. _No_ , she thinks, _He’ll only just repeat everything we talk about to Abe._ She debates grabbing a book and hightailing to another part of the house, but she knows Cleo will only follow her there, and she’s not really in the mood to continue being yelled at. She can’t text Abe because, well, for Obvious reasons, which leaves her to wander the streets alone or to text Kennedy –

Whose number she has saved from that time she helped him campaign against Abe.

She hasn’t really talked with him since prom, but when he sees her in the hallways, he gives her a little wave, and she usually says hello, which is not something she used to do.

Before she decides against it, she types out a little message and hits send. She then rolls over in bed so that Cleo’s now yelling at her back and won’t be able to make fun of her reaction when Kennedy blows her off.

Except he doesn’t blow her off; he responds almost immediately, saying he’ll stop by to pick her up in twenty minutes.

She bolts up, Cleo looks off caught off guard, but Joan mechanically starts to get out of her jammies and into real, human clothes. She brushes her hair, puts on her purple lipstick, and sports a cute little black crop top and her favorite pair of olive-green pants. Cleo watches her get ready incredulously.

“Where are you even going?”

“Out,” she says, noncommittal.

“ _Umfffff,”_ Cleo huffs, “You are so annoying.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Joan mumbles as she tugs on a pair of shoes. She’s in a hurry to get away from Cleo and out of the house, so as soon as she’s ready, she rushes downstairs and sits on the stairs of the front porch, waiting for Kennedy to pull up.

She hears the car before she sees it and runs to the end of the driveway; Kennedy barely pulls in the driveway and stops the car before Joan’s seated in the passenger seat.

“Step on it, Kennedy,” she says, frantically. He gives her a look, when her own gaze doesn’t waver, he shrugs absentmindedly then grins, “Aye Aye, Captain.”

He reverses, then flies down the main road.

“ _Jesus fuckin’ Christ,”_ Joan mutters to herself, iron grip on the handle over the door of the car.

“Are you, uh, even allowed to say that – you being Joan of Arc and all?”

She looks at him blankly – he looks at her briefly, then reverts his gaze back to the road – which, thank _god_ – she’s fairly certain they’re going to get into an accident.

But _goodness_ that just might be the funniest thing anyone’s ever asked her.

She laughs, looks off to the side, feeling her hair blowing in all different directions.

“You’re something else, you know that?”

She looks at him again then; he lets out a little chuckle, then gives her a tiny grin. _Oh, he knows it._

He reaches for the radio dial, then turns the volume up and starts singing along, loudly (and badly, she might add), to “Jenny from the Block.”

If he hears Joan join in, he has the decency not to say anything about it.

* * *

They end up driving around for a little while, just chatting. Kennedy talks about his dads, and track practice and meets, and the one red squirrel that seems to be living in his walls, but he and his dads can’t get rid of. Joan talks about Toots, and Cleo, and the book she’s reading right now (it’s _Beowulf,_ but the Heaney translation. There’s just something so poetic about it that she isn’t quite able to wrap her finger around, but she knows she likes it).

They listen and laugh in reciprocity, and Joan really can’t remember when she had a better time.

* * *

They end up at the Grassy Knoll later, and they again share fries with cheese and gravy – it’s a little less awkward this time. Joan feels more herself, same wit, same look. Kennedy keeps it light – keeps dropping stupid lines about her sleeping with him, but she isn’t resorting to violence.

There’s a “Shut up, Kennedy,” dropped in every once in a while, but it’s in jest. Like she knows he's not serious. Like he knows she’s just kidding.

It’s nice.

He’s nice –

Joan isn’t sure how she feels about it.

* * *

They hang out more.

There’s more driving around town, radio blasting and voices crooning the words to shitty songs that she normally wouldn’t ever listen to. There’s more laughter, more fries at the Grassy Knoll, more jokes and _shut up’_ s and book recs and legitimate conversations that make her feel better and lighter.

Kennedy seems to bring out the best in her.

He’s a good friend, she thinks, even if he isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. He really cares – cares in a way that Abe didn’t. It’s always _How’s your day, Joan,_ or _How’re you, Joan? o_ r _How’s Toots, Joan,_ or _How’s the book, Joan?_ He’s always asking about her – Abe never used to ask about her.

And the best part – the best part is that he listens. He really, really listens –

Like for example –

She’s sitting across from him, they’re sharing fries again, and she’s telling him about how she really wishes that she and Cleo could get along, but she’s not really sure that’s in the realm of possibility because of Abe – which, she might add, is a right shame, but it’s as much her own fault as it is Abe’s and Cleo’s.

“I know it’s stupid,” she says, twisting a fry between her fingertips, “but I’ve never really had a girl friend before. It might be nice – if we got along.”

“It’s not stupid,” he says, “Cleo’s great – really. She’s just, er uh, she’s stubborn. And until she figures out Abe for herself, she’s gonna keep being like that. Just – give it time.”

She takes a bite of her fry, and in her contemplative state, misses the way he follows the movement, then looks intently at her lips.

“You’re right,” she concludes, “It’s only a matter of time before she realizes what an ass Abe is, and when that happens, I’ll do my best to be there for her. She probably won’t like that but, like, she’ll have to deal with it.”

“Mhhhm” he replies, chewing his fries.

“Classy, Kennedy.”

“You know me,” he stops, posing in some silly manner; Joan can’t help but giggle. His cheeks grow faintly pink; she chalks it up to the shitty lighting, “Classy.”

* * *

The more they hang out; the more Joan grows to understand why everyone thinks JFK’s the hottest guy in school. Outwardly, he’s just – tall. And Joan knows that women go for tall men regardless of whether or not they're objectively handsome, or nice, or assholes that lead their friends on and as soon as their friend puts on a dress, they suddenly grow eyes for them.

So yes, he is tall – but he’s got a nice athletic build. Strong arms, strong legs – she’d be lying if she said she didn’t think about the way he held her as he walked her up the sidewalk to her house after Prom – firm and gentle. And like, there are absolutely no words to describe his ass. You could bounce pennies off that thing. He’s got a nice, handsome face – pretty blue eyes that follow her every move, kind eyes that let her know how he’s feeling even when he might not have the words.

And his lack of intellect is actually charming. He knows he not the smartest, but that doesn’t stop him from trying – it’s like, sometimes they’ll go to the library because it’s quiet and not even the nerds hang out there, and she’ll be reading democratic theory or something, and he’ll be sitting over there with his little sports magazine.

It’s cute –

He’s cute.

_Fuck._

* * *

Joan stews on the fact that she has a crush on JFK.

She doesn’t want to keep it all in, like she did with Abe –repression sucks, but it was very Catholic of her and provided her with _lots_ of artistic material (film wise). But she also doesn’t want to ruin a good thing. She and Kennedy are friends – really good friends. She doesn’t want to give something up all in the name of reciprocity.

But, another part of her is almost sure that he likes her back. She thinks about all the time they’ve been spending together, about Prom, about before Prom, even – when he was interested in her as John Dark, or even that party that Abe got that lame beer for.

She thinks about the looks, the slight touches, the ghost of a smile Cleo’s always mentioning him wearing in school after he’s seen her around the halls.

 _It’s stupid,_ she thinks.

 _But he liked me for me_ , who’s to say he changed his mind?

* * *

Summer rolls in, hot and sticky, but Joan’s happy to have a break from school. She’s currently curled up on a chair in the living room, just about finished with reading _All Quiet on the Western Front_. She’s got about a half hour before she needs to be ready for Gandhi’s pool party – Kennedy’s meeting her here and picking her and Cleo up, then they’re heading over together.

It should be fun. Gandhi even got someone capable to take care of the beer this time.

She closes her book gently and makes her way upstairs to the room she shares with Cleo. Cleo’s already preparing – make-up and jewelry and hair – it looks nice; Joan tells her as much.

“Thanks,” she says, “I can do yours someday, if you’d like.”

“I’d like that,” Joan says; Cleo offers her a smile.

It’s a start.

It really doesn’t take Joan too long to get ready. She dons a black bikini, a black tee-shirt and black shorts, brushes her hair, and fixes her mascara and lipstick just a little bit before deciding that’s as good as it’s gonna get.

She looks at herself in the mirror for a second, before turning to Cleo, “You ready?”

“Just about. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“’Kay.”

* * *

Kennedy picks them up not five minutes later. He gives Cleo a big friendly hug, and Joan a hug as well – it’s certainly big, but she’s not sure its friendly. By the knowing, smug look Cleo’s giving her, it probably wasn’t. Joan is both terrified and thrilled by the idea.

Joan and Kennedy joke around the whole car ride there, Cleo is mostly left alone in the backseat – not intentionally, but left alone, nonetheless. Once they arrive, Joan tells Kennedy to go on ahead she’ll meet him around back.

It’s just her and Cleo, getting their stuff in order before they go say hello. The silence is tangible – Joan wants to tear through it, but Cleo beats her to it.

“He likes you; you know.”

Joan looks up at her, like a deer caught in headlights; she feels her cheeks grow warm.

“I know,” she says quietly.

“I know you have a tendency to screw yourself over with these things,” Cleo states, “so don’t. He’s not Abe; you have nothing to worry about.”

“Thanks, Cleo,” Joan says kindly.

“Just. Don’t tell anyone we’re on speaking terms now; I have a reputation to uphold here.”

Joan offers a mock salute. Cleo rolls her eyes.

The shut the car doors with loud slams, then make their way into the party.

* * *

Joan finds herself sitting on one of steps in the shallow end of the pool. The water’s up to about her belly, and her cup of luke-warm beer rests idly on the brick beside her. She looks out across the pool, which glows a pretty iridescent color, bio-hazardy but beautiful. She watches Gandhi make a fool out of himself for clout near the diving board, watches Van Gogh doing laps in the deep-end, watches Cleo flirt with the new girl, Jane Austen.

She keeps an eye out for JFK, but doesn’t see him anywhere. 

Then – suddenly there’s a splash – she hears it before she feels it, then, the part of her that isn’t submerged is drenched, and she lets out a screech of surprise.

“Uh, Cannonball?” Kennedy says, as he swims up in front of her.

“You scared the shit out of me, you know.”

“That was, uh er, the whole point.”

“I think you ruined my beer,” she pouts.

“Not like you were drinking it anyway.”

“Not the point.”

“Still a valid point.”

“Is it though,” she asks – then he’s standing up, and she tries not to ogle him as he makes his way to sit down beside her.

She scoots over, making more room for him on the step. She leans into his arm, testing fate but also not really giving a shit anymore – she’s like, fairly certain her feelings are requited. She looks at the sky – really looks at it, sees the swirling blues and yellows and greens of the stars, the bright glow of the moon against the dark, black sky. It’s beautiful.

She sees a shooting star – small, but fast and mighty, and makes a wish.

“What’re you doing,” he whispers to her.

“Making a wish.”

She thinks of JFK, and all the time they’ve spent together, how he helped her realize Abe really was a giant piece of garbage, how she came to understand that she deserves so much better than someone who wouldn’t even give her the time of day.

“What’cha wish for?”

She opens her eyes, removes her head from his shoulder, and turns to face him –

She kisses him – she’s not really sure what she’s doing, as she’s never really kissed anyone before, but it feels nice. It’s slow, and gentle and a little awkward, but it’s nice. It’s like the Grassy Knoll after prom – a little strange, but the start of something good and new. His hand comes to rest against her cheek, and she’s never really felt like this before – cared for, wanted.

It's – well, it’s nice.

She smiles, moving her face back for a second to really look at him, to see the tiny smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose, the smile lines around his mouth, the tiny crow’s feet in the corner of his eyes.

“Something like that,” she whispers.

He smiles at her, then kisses her once more.

" _Somethin' like that_."

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are the bee's knees <3


End file.
